Worlds beyond imagination, sights humans were not meant to experience, people that exist only in fiction. I've mastered travelling the multiverse. The question is: What does that make me in relation to other humans?

A scatterring of articles and clippings that continue to gain pertinence as the machine of life chugs on. This post will be further updated in accordance with the more prominent dates in the calender of Poshum. As they say in certain Akashic circles: one's brown eye must always look to the back, for it paths the future with the richest of soil.

The Faecal Fjords of Facchus

Doth tempt a winking eye

In liquid soil, new life is born

Thus is the brown lie

Coprofernicus, 1901

'Many of these men- and many of you will be unknowingly familiar with them, perhaps even in the most intimate of circumstances- have already finished tilling the soil with their pitchforks and have begun to preach his name openly, their manipulations and deceptions having given way to the open hostility that the God of the Shitlands demands. Their pitchforks are pointed at your [hearts] now.' - Ivan Jaksic, 1989

Below is a transcripted, Garfield-esque comic excerpt taken from a Feckmann Committee's Annual Pamphlet. This pamphlet was to be given to all active members, specifically geared towards those with family units, in 1976:

Title: 'Spug!'

A grossly overweight child (son) and emaciated, bearded man (father) sit in front of a flickering fireplace [upon close inspection, a green, canine skull can be seen burning in the fire]. They talk in comic style speech bubbles as the comic panels progress.

Son: 'Father. Why do we have to watch each other sleep? The others at school mocked me when I told them about this.'

Father: 'So that, in our primitive, hungerous desperacy, we might accidentally touch upon it's feculence. That is when the chicken smiles.'

Son: 'But why watch each other sleep?'

Father: 'For that is when I smile at you.'

END

'His anus whispers a mournful song. Of summers past and the winters to come. It speaks of saccharine nothings and decadent verisimilitude. He is Facchus, God of the Shitlands. And he winks at you all.' - Ivanka Trump, Feckmann Annual Charity Ball, 2012.

'The rubenesque bum plunderer is not a graceful deity, nor a merciful one. He and his pantheon perform a passionate dance. And we are to watch. Masturbation is the only appropriate applause.' - Jack Ruby, upon his death bed.

A personal note before I retire to my business. There are those among you who would glance upon these tidings and refuke their contents. And you are blessed. The heralding of Facchus goes largely unnoticed and for many of you, this should be considered a very fortunate thing indeed. But the wheels turn and as we enter the fourth dawn, and the wondrous brown creeps up from the shadows of ebony, it may heed you well to take note of these references.

The evening has taken a darker colour and I must soon attend to my duties. I will continue transcribing the various texts and articles as the season of Poshum permits and should there be enough interest.

For now. Farewell.

Fidrick Gorn (an obvious anagram to those versed in the Paadmium ;) )

UPDATE 1:

And so, in the month of Fachsgiving, the most jubilant of the Poshum festivals, we return to our rather meagre collection of repugnant splendor.

It is for you that I provide more boats of foul gravy for our tenebrous pot luck.

I have recieved a dribble of private messages, prodding as to ascertain the nature of my true identity and, I can assure you, I am no different in appearance to many of you.

Of course, my true identity is Fidrick Gorn. But what the woman at the post office sees is a quacking WASP of a man; a model caucasian who's greying protrusions serve well as a baffoonish nod to Kronos' fiddlings.

You must understand, unlike many of Facchus's begotten ilk, I was not born into the ways of the Paadmium. No, I strove and clawed my way to reach this point of orgasmic gnosis; sacrificing a ready-prepared, TV dinner of a life and rejecting the bland normality of western man. Out of office hours, at least.

I choose to perceive these decisions as heroic in nature, though admittedly self-oriented. But I can empathise that your perception will be rather different. As Leonard Nemoy said, while recalling his first sexual experience: 'Facchus gerhd á ferchus (Facchus here I come.)'

There are strictly 3 aspects to Facchus, and these are appropriately referenced throughout the various Poshum rituals. I have listed these below along with a relevant image.

These visual interpretations of Facchus's various aspects serve as very useful glimpses into the heart of the Paadmium, and hint at how one can physically and spiritually benefit from Facchus' worship, during the inevitable Poshum's Harvest (which some of the circle speculate is to arrive disconcertingly soon).

'Poshum; dalliance with the incorporeal, soiled be it may. Paadmium; of words to splendor, be thy perfect way.' - Martin Luther, 1500 (before the grand forsakening)

I will now address one of the other private messages I recieved- one of which I found to be a particularly good point of discussion. Indeed, one of you was highly curious as to the nature of Coprofernicus, whom I quoted in my first post.

I will now try to summise this man's brown lustre and highlight his pertinence to these ruminations.

Coprofernicus was an early 20th century scholar and professor who many among the circle consider to be unsurpassed in his knowledge and understanding of the Paadmium.

Coprpfernicus. A leather bound scoundrel whose glorious misconception led to many of the brown secrets being leaked to the oppressed forsaken (that would be us).

His birth name is still uncertain but he is thought to hail from Oxford or Buckinghamshire.

A lecturer- and often public exhibitor- in the rituals of Poshum, Coprofernicus was an anomaly among Facchus' ilk. He was born, apparently by accident, to a Begotten Father and an unbeknowenst Mother.

The chosen venues for his open lectures were, more often than not, public bathrooms. Indeed, he believed these were the purest altars of Facchus worship.

He attempted to pattern his philosophical and theological career upon Nicolaus Copernicus, becoming a fecculent and grim parody of the celebrated scholar; his pseudonym an obvious portmaneau of Coprofelia and Copernicus.

Coprofernicus, who is occasionally referred to as The Great Revealer (due to his recreational exhibitionism/ faecal consumption and his exposure of many Paadmamic secrets) sought to spread word of the Poshum among the people, loosening the Begotten's jealous grasp upon it's teachings. That is to say, for enthusiastic outsiders such as myself, he is a mythic character.

Unfortunately he died under questionable circumstance just as his career was beginning to gain steam. Some say his death was a natural reaction to the copious mountains of stool he consumed, whilst others claim his feast was poisoned, a means to silence his dangerous voice. Be it as it may, we, the lambasted parishioners, may never learn the truth of Coprofernicus' end.

Of course there will be those among you, those among the stars, versed in the Paadmium, practiced in the Poshum beyond measure, who will look upon my words and curse my name. Those that refuke Coprofernicus and all of us tenebrous outsiders. Those who will mistake my enthusiasm for pretension. The begotten who I have referred to time and time again, who guard Facchus's name most jealously. To those, I say: It is the season of Poshum and of open arms.

I kissed the brownest of bears and swam in His fetid sea. My lips are still sticky with His glory. To deny me, is to deny him.

And what a glorious, brown sea it is. I dreamt of it in the most stickiest of slumbers. I was a writhing, golden snake, lost in His gravy Nirvana. The most comforting of unknowledge blanketed me, as I squeezed through the sludge of my awakening.

The smell, even in my dream state, was the most horrifying, haunting aroma I have ever sampled; an uncompromising deluge of olfactory feck that served to steam away my fears, like an abysmal, nightmarish sauna.

The creatures I did see; the most phallic of fish, the most faecal of flounder, darting throughout the dark amber depths with purpose and pride.

Indeed, it was my envy of these creatures, and their relationship with Him that tore me from my Poshum's Rest.

And when I awoke, in everything did I see the Poshum.

I digress.

Ink bleeds into the sky and I know it is time for me to return to my business. In our next update I shall be delving further into the nature of the Shitlands and my wondrous trip into those dreamy, gravy waters. Please feel free to ask any questions and I will respond in turn. In the mean time, having reached a point of great excitement reciting my own experiences, I shall once again be kissing the brownest of bears and taking the plunge. I thank you for reading.

We all know in the IT world that printers need the occasional prayer circle, blood sacrifice, and the like to keep running or Cthulhu will be summoned and do terrible things. We also know not to take this literally.

Well, one of my friends ($Senseless) who is somewhat tech literate, but lacking in the common-sense department, tends to take some things…to the extreme. And sometimes too literally. This happened a couple weeks ago.

I stopped by his place after work to drop off his external with movies he let me borrow. We got to talking about how his printer has been acting up for the past month, so I decided to take a look at it. I verified his drivers were up to date and the printer was installed. It’s a typical $dy home MFP, nothing too fancy.

As I turned around to ensure it had power I see $Senseless standing over the printer with a steak and blood dripping onto it. Blood.

$Me: Dude, what the fsck are you doing?!$Senseless: I’m feeding the printer!$Me: What are you talking about?$Senseless: You told me printers need a sacrifice to work sometimes! He continues to squeeze the raw steak and let the blood and juice continuously drip onto it.$Me: Dude, that’s not… You know what? Never mind.

After stopping $Senseless from squeezing the remaining flavor out of this big beautiful steak, I checked the printer. Most of the blood and juice seemed to be on the plastic, so maybe I could salvage it. After unplugging the power cord, I grabbed some paper towels and proceeded to clean up the mess. It was at this point, I became very curious.

$Me: How many times have you… “fed it”?$Senseless: Oh, I don’t know. For the past month, at least every other day. Stupid thing won’t work.

$Me: I can’t fix this dude. And your warranty is shot. On the bright side, I guess Cthulhu is definitely pleased…

I guess the good news is he only paid $45 for the printer, so it wasn’t a huge loss. I try to keep him away from printers now. If only the steak was sacrificed properly over some flames with some coleslaw and potatoes on the side.